Cloud Forest, Costa Rica

Sweating in the darkness, wandering the rain forest at six in the morning, the crew halt. Above us though the trees, faint rays of sunlight are slowly appearing. Lindsey pulls out binoculars and focuses on far away trees—our teacher lost to the wilderness for a while. Behind me, Chris is asleep on his feet, swaying slightly as we glance around.

There is a second of peace among the trees as the group spreads out with our notebooks drawn. Then, as soon as it began, a howl reverberates through the creepers. The ghostly sound forces Chris’s eyes open as binoculars swing around in search of the culprit.

Through the bush we see movement and a lone howler monkey appears and vanishes among leaves far above. These creatures, with the loudest cry of any animal on earth, are soon serenading us en mass, putting off my attempts to take notes. As Cory creeps past, camera out and ready, I jot down as much as possible.

The howler monkey is small black and racoon sized. They inhabit the upper reaches of trees in Costa Rica and other rain-forested states along the equator. They live in tribes where the younger male is made dominant by killing all the other young. To attract mates, the males have developed their roar, which now brings me back to the jungle and the end of this entry.

San Jose, Costa Rica

Today dawned as if with reluctance, the clouds opening only slightly to let the sunshine out. I climbed from my mattress, and, by moving several tons of clothes I was able to dig up those garments worth wearing. In the hallway of what must have once been a grand colonial residence I stepped loudly past sleeping bodies and to the kitchen. Corry stood with tousled hair and slowly spooned pancake mix onto a saucepan, with a very Dickensian air.

After eating and chatting up some American backpackers, I threw random objects into my bag and departed the hostel with my crew in tow. We trod to the nearest park in a tight bunch, Damian habitually grabbing at me as I veered over the pavement into oncoming traffic.

After half an hour of bus journeys we arrived in a neighborhood far removed from the grubby urbanism of downtown San Jose. The houses here were still barred but there were more trees and I felt at peace as I wondered down the leafy streets. To my left looms a bright yellow house with sloping tile roofs and an air of tranquility around it. Through the gate an elderly gardener smiles and continues to prune. The building we are ushered into is that of a small Spanish school which we are visiting for a lecture.

For two hours of learning we explored the roots of Costa Rican politics and history. Afterwards, with heads filled with conquests and coups, dictators and liberators we climbed back on our bus and headed into the smog. Looking though the window at the dusty streets I thought about the Ticas and all they have achieved. As men wearing football shirts clambered over my legs I was amazed with this country I had found myself in. A place where traditionally the ruling class worked the fields alongside peasants. A country which was given independence without wanting it, and that only found out they were free from Spanish rule several months after the agreement was signed.

Several days ago I would not have said this but truly I am happy to be here, free from the chains of Western culture.

Tranquilo Backpacker Hostel, San Jose, Costa Rica

French, German, Dutch, Swedish, Hebrew, Hungarian, Spanish and English, the accents and voices are my own exotic soundtrack. I loll in a hammock, coke in one hand, notes in the other and try to study for class. Playing dice at night, my educator Steve with his new beard and French Legion boots welcomes others to our group of merry gamblers. Soon he succeeds in getting a myriad of characters involved, most probably escaped from the pages of the Quiet American. There is:

The stocky, topless and extremely loud French man with his blonde lover on one arm and various beers, cigarettes and dice clenched in the free hand.

The lost Australian with dark tousled hair who moves from group to group with an air of intense bemusement.

A large bunch of French Canadians with exotic names and strange hairstyles. Their chief preoccupation seems to be that of tittering behind my back in unintelligible French.

The Hungarian thirty year old with his ravishing girl friend who is my age and apparently his lover and avid backgammon opponent.

Among all these I feel safe and secure for those that follow my BLOG will know that the intrigue passion and laughter (imagined or not) of a youth hostel appeal to my inner romantic and are the reasons I feel at home where others are so uncomfortable.

San José State Museum, San José, Costa Rica

Through dusty stone artifacts of exotic creatures I go on my quest. I walk forward, ready to bolt, and then I am through the door and inside, the inner sanctums of the San Jose state museum open to me. The academics and researchers I suddenly encounter there seem very surprised by my sudden presence in their office.

Looking back I can imagine that it must be quite uncommon for the workers in the department of archeology and restoration to get many tourists demanding instant tours (especially with the head of the department)

Likewise the members of the Organization for Public and Private Unions seemed surprised as we turned up unannounced at their door requesting an audience. We had found out about this organization from a taxi driver when Steve was asking his opinion on free trade agreements and he promptly took us to meet the experts.

It says a lot for Costa Rica that in both cases we gained what we wanted and that I now feel personally enlightened. The people we encountered were so passionate about their different fields that one felt bombarded by facts and enthusiasm to the point where I would exit the meetings struck dumb with what I had learned.

Now as I woefully tramp the corridors of my hostel I feel an urge to teach what I have learned. I am compelled to sit down and start conversatings with “Did you know…?” and lecture for hours. It is only with great effort that I do not tell of the mysterious stone balls on the Costa Rican hills, of CAFTA, which will destroy the superior government systems here, of shamanic rituals and Spanish conquest. And really when you get down to it, of Costa Rica its self.

San José, Costa Rica

We live in a beautiful and yet fragile world. As I start to spread my wings and explore Costa Rica, examining everything around me, I am aware of this more than ever before.

I sat and listened today and rainforests sprouted and came alive in my imagination. The woman at the Rainforest Alliance Network sat down and turned on her projector and like that I was captured. Images appeared, of water spewing outwards from gray cliffs towards the smudge of green below. Of animals caught for an instant in that moment of celluloid magic as the camera clicks and the picture is taken. Dusty workers, silent chainsaws perched on their knees as they turn, watching the camera distrustfully as the forest disappears around them, one tree at a time. As we were lectured I found myself immersed in figures:

• An area needs 100 inches of precipitation to be considered a rainforest and is generally evergreen.
• Only six percent of the world is made up out of tropical forests
• 50% of the world’s species live in rainforests and only 80% of those have been discovered.
• 70% percent of species in Costa Rica are insects.
• 43 species of ants have been discovered on one tree in Costa Rica.
• The world’s rainforests have decreased from six billion acres to two point five billion, and most of that in the past fifty years.

As I listen I become fidgety and look towards the windows, as if to escape to the forests like some character in a cheesy movie.

Tranquilo Backpacker Hostel, San José, Costa Rica

I sit here now and think of my bag. It seems strange (even to me) that my thoughts should choose to linger over my backpack but I confess I have wanted to write a piece on my luggage for a wile.

My pack is like a large, stupid but very loyal dog. From being thrown off two story buildings to having its straps melted by acid, it has stood by me through everything and everyone. Sitting here now I am reminded of the many times we spent together, some good yet most excruciatingly bad and filled with memories of departure lounges and lost bag desks. As a learned man once remarked “I have been to nearly as many places as my luggage” and I see, with little humor, his point.

Sleeping on a bench in LAX, my pack tied to my arm as announcements boom overhead.
Zooming through streets filled with crowds and frantic vehicles in a dirty tuk-tuk with the bag tied to the back. (testing the straps out) dropping it off a Bondi balcony one sunny day. Sweating in the rain as I walk miles in the dark, on a Scottish island carrying a pack so as to avoid hurting my pride and catching a taxi.

However worried I get with the places I find myself in, I am always reassured by the near constant presence my luggage. Nothing else has been so constant or durable throughout my travels, including people and all as my dusty rucksack. Now as I get ready for another frenzied bout of travel I hope with all my heart that all these trusting words will not curse my most trusted of companions.

San José, Costa Rica

The airport is safety, a fortress of first-world standards with its armory of air conditioners and snack food. I emerge from the plane into Costa Rica and have anticipated the feeling of false security such places cultivate. Instead of falling pray to this I stride quickly past and grab my bags.

Here amongst the white washed pillars and strolling police I do not linger but, head instead towards the sliding glass door that mentally marks the point of no return and the start of an adventure. I step through the exit and though the heat hits me like a wave I, as a metaphorical surfer rise above and over the mixture of warmth and culture shock.

Now a day later I am adapted, happy in the role I feel most comfortable. Though at times a student and happy family member I feel most alive at other times and places far removed from normality. When I stand on a corner, in a strange city with a backpack hanging off my shoulders nothing seems to go wrong and I feel like a prince exploring his kingdom.